I bought my house twenty years ago as a retreat from the world. I was single, shy, introverted, and felt no need to wait for a man to put down roots. I needed a place to return at the end of the day and refill my well of energy. I stocked the rooms with family antiques and collectibles that my father had stored since my grandparents’ death in 1967. I never knew his parents, but I still feel their energies emanating from their dining room set, silverware, and photographs. Everywhere I turn, I have tried to place personal objects that remind me of a family member, friend, or trip I have taken. While I do not have an altar per se, these mementos scattered throughout the house keep me grounded in a personal chronology that I cherish.

Since getting married in 2015, I have had to shoehorn another person into my space; this continues to be a challenge. My husband is an artist who likes clean lines, bright color, and modern décor. To accommodate his need for naturally lit studio space on the first floor of the house, I have removed most of my “Craft supplies” to a finished room in the basement where I write meditations, perform candle work, mix oil, and read card/runes. While at first I was resentful at having to reconnoiter underground, I enjoy this basement space more than I thought I would. Even the act of turning on the lights and going downstairs feels ritualistic, as if I am going deeper and connecting with my true self.